


les amis Collective 5.0

by Ark



Series: Hacker AU [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Angst, Emotions, Hipsters, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Multi, Occupy Wall Street, Renewals, Revelations, Social Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly texts Enjolras: <em>If you give a damn at all about R, you'll get over here.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	les amis Collective 5.0

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to my [tumblr](et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) loves and readers here for encouragement. This wouldn't exist if not for you. My appreciation to the city of Krakow, Poland for its cafes and beers that made writing this possible, and to Berlin for letting me type it up in the sunlight.

Enjolras has been more than out of touch; he's on a different planet.

A planet where the world's so-called democracies and self-appointed defenders of civil liberties detail the partners of uncooperative journalists, the true freedom fighters. A world where countries look the other way in the face of chemical weapon attacks against civilians, because it isn't politically or economically expedient to stare directly.

Les amis have never been busier, but on this, the post-Edward Snowden Earth, they've never had to be more careful. The U.S. and international authorities, never friendly to meddling hackers, are now on the warpath. Every operation takes twice as long to hide their tracks, encrypt their traces.

He hasn't had time to eat, let alone sleep, let alone go outside. Seeing his friends beyond the context of their IRC channel hasn't happened in two weeks.

Seeing Grantaire has only happened once in the same time period. He's deflected all of Grantaire's texts and emails, feeling bad about it, but his hands are electronically bound.

 _Work is crazy,_ he writes back. _Sorry, deadline was moved to today. Yup, another project._ Or, _I can't tonight, this is due in the morning._ And on and on and on.

Earlier on, Enjolras had folded, let Grantaire come over on his own rare night off from bartending. It was a glorious evening, inside and outside, a warm night not too hot, with clear skies that showed the rare glimpse of stars above the New York City smog.

Enjolras cracked open two bottles of good red wine from Spain stashed in the closet from a long-forgotten trip. Grantaire made dinner -- a confection of ingredients that looked messy and tasted like nirvana. They shared the wine out over several hours, with Grantaire drinking most of it, but Grantaire could consume amounts that levelled most grown men and still expound merrily. A mere bottle barely got his buzz on.

Enjolras might worry about that more if he didn't have more pressing concerns; that lovely, stolen night, he'd been concerned with having Grantaire out in the garden, gone down on him under the shadows from the trees, then fucked him with the stars winking in co-conspiracy.

They'd done their best to keep their groans and the creak of the bench to a minimum for the benefit of the young people in the upstairs apartments, but that day, a day spent fighting for fast-vanishing rights of personal privacy, Enjolras was keen to exercise his own.

Risks taken with Grantaire never felt risky; Grantaire made them feel right, made him feel so fucking good. But that was a week and a half ago, and ever since Enjolras has had to dodge him for Collective duties, pleading mundane work.

It's wrong, it's increasingly wrong, all the things Grantaire can't and doesn't know. It wasn't supposed to be like this -- whatever _this_ is.

Grantaire's cheek warm on Enjolras' shoulder as they laugh about inappropriate splinters naked together on a wooden bench with the herbs Grantaire used to make their dinner growing nearby and the stars overhead.

But if there's been any part of him that's considering telling Grantaire even a part of Enjolras' truths, that vanishes the day David Miranda is detained in custody at Heathrow to send his partner a message. Enjolras imagines Grantaire in custody, threatened and intimidated and kept for hours without counsel or contact -- likely without even a glass of water, as is procedure. Grantaire wilting under the barrage of accusations, shaking and alone and put on a watch-list or worse for life. All because of Enjolras. No.

That's also the day, unfortunately, that Grantaire emails: _Ep and I are co-bartending for charity. Something about saving the children. Lots of people are coming out. I'll make you the best Manhattan you've never dreamed of. One drink, I swear. Then you can go back to the mines. It would be so great to see you._

Grantaire's gotten much, much better at the internet under Enjolras' tutelage; the email ends with a .gif of a puppy rolling over to beg. Full marks.

Enjolras looks at the screen a long time -- looks at the windows full of active stats scrolling past behind it. Looks at his sixteen open browser tabs with increasingly terrifying news about the abuse of government powers against innocent civilians.

 _Can't tonight,_ he types. _Really sorry. I'll make it up to you._ He sends the message before he can stop himself -- because it's a lie; he doesn't know how or when he ever can -- but it turns out he doesn't need to elaborate. After that there's no forthcoming message from Grantaire. Grantaire goes dark.

Enjolras should feel relieved that there's nothing in the way of his night spent smuggling media out of Syria to the necessary media channels, but he doesn't. When the phone buzzes at 1am, he grabs for it.

Partially he's happy Grantaire didn't give up. Partially he's annoyed: there's so much work to do --

It isn't Grantaire.

 _I think you should think about coming down here,_ says Joly's text, cautiously diplomatic as always, yet with the firm edge of a prescription: _That would be the course of action I would advise._ He adds the name and address of a bar in Bushwick.

 _???_ Enjolras sends back.

 _Can't explain. Just get in a cab and get here. It's important._ Two minutes later, on the heels of that: _I checked, and Combeferre says everything is under control for now. No excuses._

(No new messages from Combeferre.)

Enjolras sits staring a while longer. The clock ticks out another minute. His teeth may or may not be drawing blood, closed over his lower lip.

Joly texts: _If you give a damn at all about R, you'll get over here._

The cab speeds after Enjolras' promise of a more-than-generous tip. He might be sending one of the cabbie's kids to college -- he barely remembers what he promises. They screech into the curb outside the bar, which is packed to capacity and overflowing onto the street.

He pushes through the cloudy haze of smokers and looks around for anyone known, but all he can see are laughing faces spinning about in various levels of acute intoxication. 

No sign of Grantaire. No sign of Joly. Enjolras sends a text without looking, hand in his pocket --there's not even enough space to take out his phone -- then starts to wend his way towards the main bar. No one he knows there, either.

His concern, already growing, already grown gigantic, starts to spike. Then he sees that the front room is part of a much larger complex -- a converted warehouse space with multiple levels, such as can only be found in a fast-changing section of Brooklyn. Most city bars are the size of a walk-in closet due to the cost of rent, but this place is a sprawling maze.

Enjolras' pulse is a pounding beat in his ear when he edges through the chaos and gets upstairs. There -- the corner bar. That's Eponine, he can spot her spiky mane at a distance. And beside her, pouring drinks with easy flair --

Courfeyrac.

His heart won't shut up. His stomach drops. Drop-kicks. He shoves his way the last few feet.

"What'll it be, sir?" But Courfeyrac isn't smiling, for once. His lips are thinned.

"Debrief," Enjolras hisses.

Courfeyrac shakes his tousled head. "Not my job tonight, man. I'm volunteering. For the children."

Maddeningly, Courfeyrac heads to the other end of the bar, touches the small of Eponine's back. She looks up, follows his look. Sees Enjolras, and nods. Courfeyrac takes over for her mid beer-pull, fluid, pointedly not returning Enjolras' glare. Eponine comes over.

"I hear that you're a Manhattan man." Without breaking stride, she starts mixing the drink, her hands flying over bottles. With the level of noise around them, they have a modicum of privacy.

Eponine speaks frankly while shoveling ice into a highball glass. "Listen," she says, "I don't know what kind of hot-cold game you're playing with R. I don't like it, and I've told him as much." She jams a shaker over the glass and gives it a vicious shake. "But whatever you are. You're better than _that_." She points with a jerk of her chin.

Far across the room, Enjolras spots the blue-black curls of Grantaire's hair. The relief he feels to know that Grantaire is still here and whole is profound -- staggeringly profound. He wants to stagger.

Grantaire is standing at a standing table, back to the bar. His elbow is propped on the wood, and keeps slipping, as he readjusts for balance. Drunk, thinks Enjolras, far past his usual superhuman tolerance for alcohol. He frowns, but more so at the man who's standing next to Grantaire and much too close to him. Every time Grantaire tilts, the man reaches over to steady him, solicitous, and his hands linger in all the wrong places.

Jealousy is a strange emotion to Enjolras, entirely new. Anger he knows well. Betrayal he has told himself to expect, to guard against in all aspects of his life. And yet --

"We aren't --" He doesn't know what to say. What are they, anyway? The move so soon to forgo condoms had been an unwritten agreement to exclusivity, and Grantaire never suggested otherwise. Enjolras has been a fool, a short-sighted fool, and endangered himself as well. He hardly even _knows_ Grantaire, not much, outside of the biblical sense. To be so careful in every conceivable way, and to not see this coming --

"Whoa, there. You don't want to buy him a promise cock ring, that's your prerogative." Eponine's eyes blaze. "Mine is that I protect my friends. And _that_ is trouble, with a capital T, underlined and bolded." She pours the drink over ice, hands steady, voice steely. "R gets hit on a lot -- a _lot_. That's the name of the game, in this line of work, whether you look like he does or not. He hasn't so much as returned a wink since he met you. If you care." Her tone implies that she doesn't, much, but is willing to give Enjolras the benefit of the doubt. "I blame myself for this -- for _that_ was going to walk in--"

Across the room, the man next to Grantaire is leaning in, gesturing, handsome features and expressive mouth pursed in what looks to be persuasion. Eponine's stance notwithstanding, Enjolras dislikes the way he carries himself -- dark jeans, a dark leather jacket, smile as slick as his slick-backed brown hair.

Enjolras' frown grows, grooves deeper.

"I'll deny it if asked," says Eponine. "I never said any of this to you." She slides the drink across the bar. "But I'm going to tell you a story only a few of us know. If it doesn't stay that way, I'll know why." Her teeth are bright, white, a shark's grin -- faked cheer, predatory. "That _thing_ over there is Grantaire's ex. And he's my fault, Montparnasse is, because I introduced them."

Enjolras closes his hand around the glass, feeling as cold as the ice clinking faintly against the rim. He can't do anything but listen.

"Occupy welcomed every sort of person -- that was the point," she says. "Solidarity. We are the 99% percent. Even when you're not, when you come from something else entirely, like me and Montparnasse. Even when you grow up being thrown out of one boarding school after another for being a troublemaker, and only get to go to fancy college because Grandpa once had a building built there with his name on it."

Under Eponine's fierce expression, Enjolras sees a flicker of recrimination spark. "When Montparnasse wanted to join us, I bought it -- I really did -- thought that he'd woken up like I had. I grew up with him; then he was a Jondrette Capital man. He said he was done with all the crooked bullshit our fathers had foisted on the world. Said he'd been illuminated, seen the light. Wanted to smash the state. Said he was a proper anarchist, now, and turned up with a gang of window-smashers to prove it. They'd been through some shit; I believed him. You see," says Eponine, waving away the money that Enjolras tries to offer, "we wanted, and needed, everyone in Occupy. Peaceniks who still had their protest signs in the closet from Vietnam, and peaceful kids too young to shave. But also those willing to take it further -- to stand up; to fight, when fighting's needed. It's hard to always be good in the face of so much that's wrong. But there's some people who don't want to fix the way things are, who don't want to work towards making things better. All they want to do is hurt, and break stuff. They like pain more than peace."

Enjolras' frown has become a scowl. He takes a sip (flawlessly made, and goes down burning) in an attempt to smooth it out.

"Their relationship was shit from the start, if you ask me. 'Tumultuous,' Marius used to say. 'Fiery.' Ever the optimist, Marius." He only hears Eponine's sigh because he's so close. "I would have seen it sooner if I weren't so caught up in my own bullshit. But I was, and I won't ever forgive myself for that."

The sigh becomes a deep breath sucked in. "R said he told you a little of what happened at Occupy Seattle. Maybe he told you of my martyrdom to the pigs of pepper spray?"

Enjolras nods, minutely, and this time nothing whatsoever flickers on her face as she talks. Her face is carved from stone, stony. "What I'm positive he didn't tell you is that he was right next to me when it happened, and took a big hit himself. He'll deny it these days, but the R I knew then would have done anything for his friends -- would have died for them. He threw himself in front of Jehan and Feuilly, and took the spray. Some of the volunteer medics dragged us free; washed us clean, got us to a place where we could breathe again. And when we could --"

Eponine's eyes hold and keep Enjolras', daring him to look away. He doesn't. "The other thing the medics washed away was the makeup on Grantaire's face. He'd gotten good at it, see. To cover the bruises."

Enjolras goes colder than the ice is. Then he's heating, seeing red. His jaw clenches. He almost turns, then, to cross the room and wrench Grantaire away, to free him, save him, keep him safe, from the present and the past. A sharp sound catches his attention, and he realizes it's his own stifled exclamation.

Eponine nods. "After I knew what was going on, you can be goddamned sure I wasn't going to let it happen again. But like -- like many in his position, R couldn't be reasoned with then. Affection's a powerful deterrent against self-preservation. He said the usual shit: it was his fault, for pissing off Montparnasse, when he should have known better; Montparnasse had apologized, he was sorry, he was always sorry. It was going to get better, like it was in the beginning." Her smile is a ghost of one. "It was never going to get better. I couldn't do much about Grantaire. But I could do something about the fucker I'd exposed him to. The only saving grace in the shitstorm was that I had enough on Montparnasse to threaten him. I let him know what would happen if he didn't leave." The smile resurrects. "He left."

Enjolras exhales. Hadn't known he'd been holding his breath. "Eponine--"

"Don't thank me. Least I could do. I wanted to give Montparnasse a taste of his own medicine. But violence only begets more violence. Cruelty breeds more of the same. It took me a long time to learn that." Once more, she nods toward the distant figures. "Now you see why I told your chevaliers to call you down here. They don't know the full story -- only that he's bad news. Really bad. But Enjolras, listen to me -- just one more minute."

"I know Grantaire really well. Better than most. He's a darling -- one of the best there is. But he's stubborn as an ass. Likes to see himself as independent, especially once he got over the heartbreak of being left behind and was able to see some of what he'd been through more objectively. If you go charging over there like a knight in shining armor, you're going to freak him out." She raises both elegantly arched eyebrows. "Now tell me I haven't misplaced my trust yet again. I never, ever, _ever_ would have told you; it's not my story to tell. But this is--"

"Important," Enjolras finishes for her. "Grantaire is."

Now the smile is winning. "Hole in one, Ken Doll. Now go." She shoos him, looking adamant, and worried, and resolved.

"Eponine, I--"

"If you want to thank me, you can do it by getting Grantaire away from him," she says. "I'd do it, but then there would be blood. And tonight is for the children."

As if summoned, a slightly built boy detaches from the shadows and bounces into their orbit. There's no way he's anywhere close to twenty-one; his messy shock of sandy hair has been swept over his eyes in an attempt to conceal the fact, but the swaying, drunken masses seem oblivious either way.

"Ep, I washed all the glasses," he reports, ignoring Enjolras after an evaluating scan, "and collected charity donations from two dozen people, using these." He taps his temple, flashing huge pleading doe-eyes that vanish under an ear-to-ear grin that looks oddly familiar -- Enjolras realizes with a start that it's identical to Eponine's. "Where's my beer?"

"Silence, brat king." Yet her tone is rich with unbridled affection. "You'll get a can of PBR after we close up, under strict supervision. Did you _polish_ the glasses?"

"But--"

"Begone." She waves him off.

The kid turns those enormous eyes on Enjolras. He rolls them. " _Women._ Amiright?" But he slips away as bidden.

Eponine watches him go. "My baby brother," she explains. "Bane of my existence." Her expression suggests that he's everything but that. She shrugs. "He's sixteen. Old enough to drink in Europe." Then, bar-rag in hand, she follows the teenager over to the line of drying glasses. Enjolras has also been dismissed.

Nearby Courfeyrac will not look up at Enjolras no matter how long Enjolras stares, so Enjolras leaves him for later. He spins on his heel, drink clutched in hand, and faces the back of Grantaire's ducked head, and the monster sidled up beside him.

Enjolras doesn't know what to do. He doesn't have a fucking clue. But at least, thanks to Eponine's story and her advice, he knows what _not_ to do -- which is to cross the room in bold strides and punch Montparnasse in his smirking rat's face for daring to have ever touched Grantaire, and having the temerity to touch him again.

Instead, he does a circle around the crowd, coming from the front, so that Grantaire can see him approach. Enjolras cranes his head around, as though searching, and suddenly alighting on them.

The look on Grantaire's face when he spots Enjolras means that the pleased and relatively cheerful expression on his own is not an act. Grantaire lights up, as though an internal switch has been flicked.

"Hey!" Enjolras shouts above the din. He ignores Montparnasse entirely: no jealousy, no fury shown; the man is simply a non-entity as he showers attention on Grantaire. "There you are! Couldn't find you. This place is a madhouse."

Grantaire is as intoxicated as he'd seemed from afar. He takes a moment to refocus on Enjolras, as though double-checking that he's really there. "Enjolras? I thought you said you couldn't--"

"Thought I'd surprise you," Enjolras says, feeling worse that this hadn't been his real instinct than for the lie. He slides a hand around Grantaire's back to his hip, letting it rest there with the casual intimacy of a couple that's been fucking for more than a month -- which they are, they're that, even if all the rest remains undefined. The kiss he drops connects with Grantaire's mouth, which has opened a little -- Grantaire's surprised, that's for sure. His breath tastes like an unholy mating of bourbon and tequila.

Kiss accomplished, Enjolras turns a far more forced face on Grantaire's table companion. "Hi," he says, trying to make it light, like's he's meeting any acquaintance of Grantaire's. "I'm Enjolras."

"So I hear." Montparnasse returns his smile and handshake with as skillfully concealed loathing. "In fact, I've been hearing about you all night." His eyes are narrowed; Enjolras can tell that his beady glare sees too much -- has already seen too much: probably spotted him over by the bar with Eponine, tracked his approach. Any attempts at playing this nice have failed before launch.

For Grantaire's sake, he attempts to extend the charade. "Only good things, I hope."

Montparnasse's teeth flash pearly white. "No," he says, while Grantaire flushes, and flaps an uncoordinated hand at him. His long aquiline nose would look much better broken. "Sweet R here has been pouring out his heartbreak to me, over bourbon on the rocks. That's his favorite -- did you know?" He assumes a stance of mild outrage. "It seems you've been neglecting him."

"Montparnasse, don't--"

"If he's as much as a hardass as you say, he can take his spanking." Behind the mock-concern the too-sharp eyes are glittering. "I'm an old friend of Grantaire's, as I'm sure Eponine mentioned. I look out for what's mine." He doesn't miss the way Enjolras' arm tightens around Grantaire; his voice cuts like a honed knife:

"And what I hear from my boy is a lot about a perfectly wonderful man who doesn't give him the time of day when it's not convenient -- who can't be bothered to call or return a text, who uses Grantaire to warm a bed and kicks him out to go back to work. Who can't be bothered to come see his boyfriend," Montparnasse's head tips sideways, "unless it's a _frightfully_ important occasion."

Grantaire is beet-red. "I didn't say -- Enjolras isn't --"

Enjolras' clenched jaw matches the clench of his arm around Grantaire, but it's the squeeze of his own heart he feels the most -- because, twisted as Montparnasse's words and intentions may be, he's not far from wrong. From a perspective not Enjolras', it's not untrue, the way he's treated Grantaire.

And Grantaire's instant move to declaim that Enjolras is not, in fact, his boyfriend -- a status Enjolras couldn't have assumed if asked, but to hear it from Montparnasse's abhorrent mouth, and denied by Grantaire's confused one --

Grantaire's slowed by drink, but still all too quick to catch up. He shuts his mouth, thinking about what Montparnasse said. He turns around; there's not enough time for Eponine, watching from the bar, to make herself look occupied. Caught, she stands frozen.

Montparnasse laughs. The jig is up, hardly begun, so Enjolras drops all attempts at appearing benign, but he doesn't drop his arm until Grantaire squirms out from under it.

Grantaire glances wildly between the two of them, then settles on Enjolras. His Adam's apple bobs on a swallow from his drink, mostly ice now. "Is that -- is that really why you're here? Ep called you?"

"No." This much, at least, is true; it had been Joly who texted. But his face betrays enough of it. Grantaire, looking close to collapse, shows all of the initial joy at Enjolras' appearance as equally wrecked.

"I can take care of myself."

"Grantaire--"

"Oh, do let him finish," purrs Montparnasse. "He's so feisty when he's angry. I used to love to make him mad; such a hellion in bed afterwards." The loud stage-whisper is for Enjolras. "Does he scream for you, too?"

Violence begets violence, Eponine had warned. But it's botched, it's all fucked to hell and back, and Enjolras has never wanted to inflict pain on another human being so badly in his life. He doesn't just want to hurt the guy; doesn't want to kill him, though the thought flashes by -- he wants to _destroy him_ , scorch the earth and salt the ashes. 

And he _can_. Only his chosen method of destruction is via computer console. That's how he can track and hunt and hound this fiend. That's how he'll ruin him.

Here, in reality, away from the virtual, he's virtually powerless -- he can tell that Montparnasse is too clever to bait without purpose; he's trying to provoke for his own reasons. 

Enjolras remembers what Eponine said about Montparnasse's background: one black eye and Enjolras can imagine he'll have an army of litigators after him -- or the cops, with a sob story about new lovers jealous of the old.

Montparnasse has not moved anywhere towards him, though his long tapered fingers show white-knuckled, as though he is fiercely restraining himself from being the first to lash out, the first to first blood. He's smart, and vicious, a coiled snake more want to strangle than strike.

No matter what Enjolras wants to do on his own instinct, no matter how much he wants to make this man -- _scream_ \-- he can't risk the Collective, everything they've worked for, can't risk his own safety, by sinking to Montparnasse's level. He grits his teeth so hard they're ground together.

It's Grantaire who moves. It's the quick snap of Grantaire's wrist that upends the contents of his glass (mostly ice) in Montparnasse's face. Enjolras and Montparnasse had forgotten he was there as they squared off, antlers locked.

Icy water slithers and soaks under Montparnasse's collar, darkens his dark hair. His expression changes; all remnants of the finely constructed mask fall away, and his fury is so vicious that even Enjolras wants to take a step back -- but he doesn't. He takes it sideways, interposing himself in the line of fire, covering Grantaire.

"You bitch --" Maybe it's intended for one or both of them; they never find out.

Suddenly Courfeyrac is there, tall, broad-shouldered Courfeyrac, the impressive biceps he trains at the gym vainly displayed in a tight-fitting t-shirt, but Enjolras has never been happier about his vanity. Behind Courfeyrac, the rearguard: Joly, looking worried but ready for action if needed, Joly never not prepared for the worst, and beside him Bossuet with a hand on Joly's arm, suggesting caution.

Courfeyrac takes point. "Gentlemen," he says, as though he's never seen Enjolras before in his life, let alone known him for half of it, "I'm sure we don't have a problem here? This night is, after all, for the children."

"No problem at all." Even as he says so, Enjolras signals his lieutenants that Montparnasse might do something unexpected, the children be damned. "We were just leaving, actually." He reaches for Grantaire's hand, only to find it moved.

Grantaire has stuffed both hands into his pockets and is hunched over, shoulders curved in, trying to make himself smaller, as though he might vanish from the scene entirely if he tries hard enough to be invisible.

Enjolras steps closer to him. "Come on, let's get out of here," he urges. But Grantaire, swaying slightly, gone pale and green around the gills, only shakes his head. He looks overwhelmed, confused, and more than a little distraught.

"Pardon," says a new voice by Enjolras' elbow. "I believe this is my cue."

Five pairs of eyes snap up; only Grantaire stays staring down. The speaker is a slender young man in mismatched plaids. The glory of his luxuriant hair and his skin like coffee with a hint of cream, his face like a priest's dream of a fallen angel -- the combination is more than enough to make up for the fashion oversight. The way he stands belies the willowy carriage of his body. He looks as though a strong wind might blow him over, and also like nothing could, once his feet are planted to earth. His voice carries, decisive: steel sheathed in silk.

Bossuet exhales a sigh of relief, and beside him, echoing it, Joly stops clutching at his umbrella like he means to use it as a club. Courfeyrac is staring at the apparition openly, tongue darting out to wet his lips, an irrepressible reflex.

Montparnasse, now more than outmatched, at least seems to know when to retreat from a losing battle. The fake smile is back -- he's grinning, as though they're all the best of friends. "Jehan. Long time, no see. Miss me?"

With a start of recognition, Enjolras wracks his brain for everything he's been told about Grantaire's roommate, cursing himself for the fifteenth time tonight for not being a better listener. A writer -- he's sure Grantaire had told him that, and still a student of some kind of poetry or another, midway through his Master's at Columbia. Something-something, he's positive Grantaire said something about Jehan coming from a lot of money but renouncing it: that would partially explain the frayed ends of his clashing clothes.

Enjolras decides he likes this Jehan exceedingly when, with one cool glance and a swivel of hip, Jehan turns his back on Montparnasse as though he hasn't spoken -- as though he were a fly, buzzing, annoying, but Jehan too kind or bored to swat it down.

His appearance makes Grantaire lift his head, at least. "J," he murmurs, sounding mournful, "I don't feel so good."

Jehan is at Grantaire's side at once. "I know, my love. I know. Let's make you feel better. C'mon." He hooks an arm under Grantaire's arms, all the way around him, with a familiarity in the movement that suggests far too much familiarity with similar situations. They start in the direction of the bathroom.

All of the eyes are on Enjolras now. Not knowing what to do, more than out of his depth, he takes a half-step after them, uncertain.

Jehan glances over his shoulder. "Ten minutes," he says. "If you want to wait, wait." He says it to all of them save Montparnasse, but Enjolras can't help feeling like the incisive, all-seeing eyes mean it mostly for him. He's the one who nods back.

Then he turns back around at an indignant cry. In the second spill of the evening, Montparnasse is now wearing a glass of red wine across his once-pristine white button-down and across his shiny shoes.

"Sorry," says Eponine's kid brother, passing with a laden tray of empties and half-empties, one of which is tipped over sideways. He sounds the opposite of sorry. "I didn't see you there. I thought that there was nothing there."

"Gavroche, you little fuck, I swear to God--"

Gavroche wheels, and in the sudden gleam of his eyes, so much like Eponine's, Enjolras can glimpse a similar world-weariness, and an almost savage glee.

"Try it, pondscum," Gavroche shoots back, all innocence vanished, "and I upload the old pictures from the Hamptons to Instagram faster than you can say 'Daddy can't save me anymore, 'cause he's in prison.'"

"You'd know--"

"I do." Gavroche sets down the tray, rolls up his sleeves like he's going into the trenches. "Difference was, I helped put mine there. And I hope he's rotting." He plunges one skinny wrist into his pocket, comes up with his phone. "Wanna see if I'm bluffing? I'm not."

Painted with two kinds of liquor, looking murderous, Montparnasse shoves away from the table. "We're not done," he tells Enjolras.

Only Gavroche's cheerful shout follows him out. "Did you really just say that? Nobody actually _says_ that." He wields the phone like a weapon. "By the way, I was recording that, too -- and it's totally going online _right now_. We're gonna make you viral, _'Asse._ "

Gavroche gets a finger, the middle one, in return, but then Montparnasse is shoving his way through the crowd, soon to be lost in it.

Enjolras stares at their unexpected rescuer a little slack-jawed, stunned by the sudden turn of events.

It's Courfeyrac beside him who speaks up. "Hey, thanks, kid."

Gavroche shrugs, like it's all in a typical night's work. "No problemo. Trust me, that was my pleasure. But if you really want to reward me, I'll take a whiskey, neat, when Ep's not looking."

Courfeyrac grins back in agreement; Bossuet cuffs his shoulder with affection, and Gavroche hefts his burden and waltzes back to the bar. Enjolras blinks. Joly double-blinks.

"He's a lot older than he looks, uh, in spirit," explains Bossuet. "Superboy. Used to show up at all the right times at Occupy, pop in just when he was needed. Got us out of a lot of scrapes."

Superboys notwithstanding --

"Report," Enjolras says, this time brokering no arguments. The clock is ticking until Jehan and Grantaire return.

Courfeyrac talks fast. "I was hoping to see Feuilly here," he says, glancing around to denote the lack of Feuilly. "Alas, I don't think he likes me like I like him." He doesn't sound too cut-up about it. "Anywho, after the nasty dude came in, and we saw the state Grantaire was in, Eponine asked if I could help bartend -- which I could, of course, since I majored in mixing drinks in college."

"We talked about it with Eponine," Joly says, still watching the way Montparnasse had gone, as though afraid of a relapse. "We thought maybe the best thing was if you came down here. But maybe we were wrong--"

"No." Enjolras shakes his head. "I'm glad that I was here. I'm less glad that I didn't get to kick him in the balls."

"I was tempted, when I first saw him. I texted Jehan instead, since we didn't know if you would--" Bossuet stops, scratches the back of his buzz-cut head, hurries past. "But just my luck I would've missed Montparnasse and broken my foot."

Joly casts him a look of patient adoration. "Lesgle told me they had a real shitty break-up. But that was -- was--"

"Who?" from Courfeyrac.

"Oh," says Bossuet. "Me. I'm Lesgle. Bossuet's just a nickname."

They'll have time for personal histories another time. Enjolras nods. "Thank you all. I wish I'd come out when Grantaire first mentioned it. Maybe--"

Courfeyrac never cares much for his self-pity or recrimination, talking quickly over it. "Hindsight's 20-20, Cap. Let's be glad everyone's in one piece, and tall dark and dumbass is old news, and speaking of pieces, is anyone going to give me the details on the _fine_ piece who's currently holed up with Grantaire?"

If Bossuet's discomfited discussing his ex, he doesn't look it. He looks at Courfeyrac almost gratefully. "That's Jean Prouvaire. He's--"

"Headed back this way," says Enjolras, whose eyes have been glued on the distant bathroom door for any sign of them. Jehan emerges alone, then starts to make his way over to where they're gathered.

"Anyway," Bossuet says, switching topics on Jehan's approach, "It was really good no one punched that asshole. His father may be in prison now, but he used to be Jondrette Capital's general counsel, and I'd bet my lucky rabbit's foot that Montparnasse inherited his dad's crooked cops and lawyer friends who aren't incarcerated. It could've been really bad for the Collective."

Enjolras, relieved at his self-restraint and that he'd made the right call, processes the rest of Bossuet's statement and comes out outraged. " _Joly!_ "

Joly doesn't even look guilty, damn him to hell. "What? We're getting _married_ , it's not like I couldn't tell him--"

"Hey, congratulations," says Courfeyrac, trying to smile and defuse Enjolras, "We thought you were joking, but you two crazy kids are perfect for each other, so--" he sticks out a hand, jostling Bossuet's in a hearty shake. "Welcome to les amis."

"Thanks," says Bossuet. "I'm a big fan. It took me awhile to believe Joly wasn't messing with me, but he showed me some of what you guys can do." He turns round, earnest eyes on Enjolras. "I won't tell anyone, I swear I won't. I wish I could help--"

Jehan has reentered the suddenly too-cozy circle of confidants, and Bossuet and Enjolras both snap their mouths closed. He'll have to deal with this later, and pray that Joly, usually the most prudent of his lieutenants, hasn't misplaced his trust in the first blush of love -- can you really _love_ someone when you've hardly known them very long at all --

Jehan's eyes are on Enjolras. "A word?" He's strangely formal, the figure of a courtly bard shaken from a dusty tapestry, dressed like a misbegotten idea of a Brooklyn hipster.

Enjolras follows him to a semi-quiet alcove set aside from the teeming masses. "R is okay, considering," Jehan starts. "He's more spooked than trashed, though don't get me wrong, he's pretty trashed. As such, I don't believe he's in any condition to be making decisions right now about who he's going home with."

Enjolras starts to speak, but Jehan holds up a hand. His lovely face is sympathetic. "Look. Grantaire's told me a lot about you -- what he can, at least. We tell each other near everything." Jehan's mouth makes a line, and Enjolras doesn't miss the reprimand -- gentler and more understanding than Montparnasse's critique of his behavior, but still present. "From what he's told me, I think you mean well. Your friends seem great; your friend Joly is my favorite, since Lesgle hasn't sent me a single awful poem since they met. I think he's officially over me." Momentarily distracted, Jehan floats back to the present and squares his shoulders.

"Grantaire's going back home -- no arguments. But if you want to, you can come with us. You can sleep on the couch." The observant eyes are picking Enjolras apart, no doubt assigning descriptive adjectives. Unsaid, Jehan is saying, _if you care,_ and after all that has occurred, it isn't a challenge Enjolras is going to refuse. He's in this, in way over his head. He cares.

So he nods. "Yes. I'd like that. If you think he won't...he won't..."

"If Grantaire hates anyone in the morning, it will be himself, and also me, for inviting you," says Jehan, blunt. "But--"

Enjolras remembers what he'd said to Eponine, half an hour and a world away. "This is important." He meets Jehan's gaze unflinching. "Grantaire is." And though he's only just met the man, Jehan's manner suggests that he sees the things others miss, reads deeper than skin-deep. There's no hiding it: "He's important to me."

It's a beautiful thing to watch Jehan's expression melt into a smile. "I wanted so much to like you," he says. "It's happening. Right answer."

The situation is fast explained to the others. Jehan retrieves Grantaire, looking better but still bleary-eyed. He keeps a protective arm around his waist as they wend through the bar, while Enjolras clears the space in front of them. He casts a last glance back over his shoulder before they're out of sight:

A thumbs-up from Courfeyrac, who'd gallantly offered his help to Jehan and been as gallantly turned down; warm smiles from Joly and Bossuet, joined at the hip and hand; and over by the bar, the hawk-eyed siblings Thenardier watch them go with doubled nods.

They go.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras isn't quite sure what he was expecting. Only not quite this.

Grantaire has made his Bohemian ideals clear -- living for his art and bartending though he thinks he could get an office job -- "A fate worse than death or turning into a giant cockroach, just ask Kafka" -- with his college degree.

They don't discuss money often, but Grantaire suggests through his habits that he doesn't have much of it, preferring to stay in and cook the rare times they eat together, making side comments about his primary creditors being Jack Daniels and Tom Collins. Once he borrowed money from Enjolras in the middle of the night for a run to the corner bodega when his cigarettes ran out.

So Enjolras has suspected that Grantaire lives the way so many young, striving people in New York do -- packed together like fish in a barrel, squeezing mattresses into airless rooms once designed to be closets, cooking over a burner stove from the hardware store.

He knew Grantaire lived in Bushwick -- it's one of the up-and-coming neighborhoods in Brooklyn, brimming with artistic and non-profit types already paying too much to live, while after them the march of gentrification rolls on, bringing hip bars like the one they'd been in, and gourmet cheese shops in buildings once crumbing.

The socially-conscious residents who flood in feel bad about pricing out the old, who have to move further, but there's little choice in a city with a 2% vacancy rate. You either surf with the tide of the reforming city, or get drowned by it.

When Enjolras offers a cab, Jehan shakes his head, says that their spot is only around the corner. Grantaire is walking on his own now, speaking sometimes to one or both of them, but his sentences are circular and don't make much sense, touching on patriarchy and hegemony, and a hunger for nachos.

Black-out drunk, thinks Enjolras, biting his tongue; it's worrisome, but he can't help but feel it somewhat of a reprieve for them both. He hopes Grantaire won't remember too much of the evening -- Montparnasse's foul words and fouler face are still swimming in Enjolras' vision, and for the first time, he can almost see the appeal of drinking so much that there's a disconnect from reality, and no new memories are formed.

With the focus on Grantaire waylaid until morning, he can examine the unexpected place where Grantaire lives. The loft building was probably once a factory, but has been totally renovated, all red-brick and gleaming with big glass windows. Jehan lets them into the upstairs apartment -- it's the only one up there -- and it's roughly the size of Times Square.

The space is massive and open and sparsely furnished, but the furniture Enjolras sees looks expensive. The huge kitchen has its own bar and roughly half the shiny appliances from a Williams-Sonoma catalogue. There's a stage -- an actual stage, with red velvet curtains -- built into one corner. The walls are whitewashed, save for the hallway leading in, which is painted with blackboard paint. Along the hallway, colorfully chalked messages have been left by many friends; Enjolras spots Eponine's name, and Feuilly's, but he's ushered past without time for closer inspection.

In the enormous living room, which could easily fit a hundred people standing, a disco ball is suspended from the ceiling.

Every wall not dedicated to a bookshelf is covered with art. There doesn't seem to be a single motif, and as such it's quite chaotic, as though a hundred museums were raided and their contents stashed here. In the dark, he can make out many that appear to be hand-painted copies of old masterpieces; others are modern and daringly abstract.

All are very fine, but the confusion and tumult of colors coming from every direction jars Enjolras further off his axis. He stands blinking, looking around, unsure of where to look first.

Without another slurred word, Grantaire lopes toward a far-away door and stumbles through it.

"I'm gonna help him get ready for bed," says Jehan. Again Enjolras senses that this is a well-known procedure. "Can't let you help, I'm afraid. No one sees R's room without his permission -- house rules." He points to a distant couch in tan-gold leather. "There's blankets and pillows in the cabinet over there -- bathroom's that door -- help yourself to the kitchen if you're hungry. I'd love to stay up and talk, really, I would -- but I taught three classes of errant freshman today, and I have two more tomorrow; I'm nearly dead to the world. Do you need anything else?"

"Um." Still overwhelmed, Enjolras can't stop looking around. "This place is -- wow--"

Jehan blushes. _Blushes._ It's then that Enjolras can see that he's somewhat shy -- the boldness in the bar a strength born out of necessity. He's met people like this before: quiet kittens who can become tigers when a friend -- or a worthy cause -- is at stake. Unbidden, he remembers what Grantaire had told him about Jehan and the other Occupy Wall Street librarians, the last to be dragged out of Zuccotti Park by the police.

"R let you think we lived in a garret, huh? Can't say I blame him -- I'm the same way. Ashamed of this place, to have so much, when so many people have so little." Jehan lifts his shoulders, looking sheepish. "My parents insisted. Said they could either buy me an apartment, or they wouldn't cosign my student loans, or approve my plan to live in the big bad city. I chose this option instead of excommunication. What they pay grad students, I'd be lucky to afford a Metrocard, let alone a place to live. At least I have Grantaire here to help me make it habitable."

It sounds like the product of a long internal struggle; Enjolras suspects that it is. He and Jehan may have more in common than they know.

"Jehan, thank you. For everything." Enjolras holds out his hand, and receives a warm shake in return.

"I've been dying to meet you," Jehan confesses, "but you're so busy, R always said it wasn't the right time. While I wish the circumstances were better--"

"Please." Enjolras shakes his head. They don't have to rehash it. "Only one more thing. If you might have a computer I could borrow for a bit?"

Jehan looks chagrined. "Shit. Left mine up at school--" He glances around, brightens, points to an exotically carved side-table. "Don't suppose a tablet will do?"

"No, that's great." Anything will do. Enjolras can work with anything connected to the internet. "Thanks, again."

"Goodnight. Sleep tight. The bedbugs won't be biting; we got rid of them last year, thank god." And Jehan exits stage left, past the stage, following the path Grantaire had taken. The door closes softly but firmly behind him.

Jehan hadn't turned on the lights, so Enjolras leaves them off despite his curiosity. He retrieves the tablet from the table, turns it on and retreats to the designated couch. He can see a bit more by the glow of the screen. He passes a recreation of Van Gogh's famous self-portrait, only the artist has been given black hair instead of red, and features too familiar to be a coincidence --

In the corner by the frame, he makes out a flourish of a mark -- _R_ \-- in Grantaire's hand, unmistakable. Once Grantaire had left a note slipped under Enjolras' door -- _Passing by, wish you were here,_ signed with the same sigil. Grantaire's work, then.

As is the next painting, and the next, and the next. He investigates a dozen. Finds a dozen Rs. All of them are R's.

This is -- this is astonishing, incredible, work nothing at all like the few album covers and t-shirt designs Grantaire had shown him when pressed.

Enjolras shakes his head at everything he hadn't known. Is pretty sure there's no one to blame but himself. But all of this is for the morning.

Now, he has a mission.

A quick check in with the Collective can't be avoided. All is quiet on the Western front.

There's one message from Combeferre: _Courfeyrac debriefed. Glad things are OK. Sending my best vibes._

It's awkward -- it's been awkward between them, unavoidably, since the rooftop -- but this isn't the time for that, either. Enjolras sends back an affirmative.

Then he sets about systematically destroying the life of one Montparnasse, once an assistant to the general counsel at Jondrette Capital.

He's laid bare to Enjolras in seconds. It's easy enough to do. It's child's play. There's so much he could do -- could falsify, could incriminate him with. In Montparnasse's case he doesn't have to make anything up. The guy's rap sheet is longer than his academic record. Thefts both petty and corporate. Arrests for disorderly conduct and violence -- Enjolras can't read the charges without descending into blind rage.

He starts small, alerting the many creditors who have been trying to collect from Montparnasse of his most recent address in the city records. He does the same with law enforcement and several outstanding warrants for arrest.

He goes bigger. He deflates already perilous credit-scores, adds him to watch-lists, unsavory registries. With each stroke of Enjolras' finger across glass, another chunk of Montparnasse's viability as an American citizen or international traveler is torn away.

It feels immensely satisfying. This is Enjolras' drug of choice. He rides out the high to completion, only crashing when the work is done. Then he curls up on Jehan's couch, with Grantaire-as-Van Gogh staring down, missing an ear, and he goes to sleep.

 

* * *

 

"I didn't make him. He wanted to come."

"Oh, my _god_ \--"

"I see why you like him so much. A bit taciturn, but strong moral fibre. And Christ, those cheekbones--"

"Jean, I am never, ever, ever going to forgive you--"

"Psh, you already have. I saw the look on your face when you crawled out of your dragon's den and saw him sleeping here. You love me so much right now--"

Enjolras awakens to the sound of heated, half-hushed whispers over by the kitchen. The open layout of the loft doesn't make for divisions. As soon as he's fully conscious, guilty of listening in, he rolls over, blinking. The voices go silent.

"Well," announces Jehan loudly, "I'm for class." There's a rattle as he tows out and mounts a fixed-gear bike in the middle of the room. As he sails past Enjolras, he tosses a "'Til we meet again?" and a wave; then he's gone.

It takes a moment, and a clatter of cups. Grantaire emerges from behind the counter carrying two steaming mugs of coffee.

He's in boxers and the Captain America t-shirt Enjolras remembers well from their first night and a lifetime ago. His black hair is sticking up in several directions, staticky with restless sleep, and his blue eyes are wide and look worried; there's a grimace on his cheek that probably denotes a hangover of monumental proportions. Somehow he still looks gorgeous. Enjolras warms at the sight of him, and swallows hard.

"Hey," says Grantaire.

"Hey," says Enjolras.

After that they don't say anything. There's nothing they can say. There's everything.

Enjolras pushes the blanket from his legs and sits up, making space beside him on the couch, which has proved criminally comfortable. Grantaire sits down, passing over a coffee.

It bursts out of both at once:

"I'm sorry--"

"I'm sorry--"

They blink at each other helplessly, then laugh as helplessly.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Enjolras says. "But you go first. House rules."

Grantaire ducks his ink-dark head. "I'm sorry you saw me like that," he says. "And I'm really sorry that you met Montparnasse." He flinches visibly at the name, but forces it out between his teeth. "I woke up to about sixty-seven texts from Eponine. I know what she told you."

Enjolras waits. It's important, he knows, to hold his tongue, though that's never been easy for him.

"Probably you're wondering how I could have been such an idiot. How I could have been with someone like that."

"I'm not wondering," says Enjolras, soft as he can manage. "The worst people are often the best at deception."

Grantaire blinks at him, like he hadn't expected this degree of sympathy, and something wrenches in Enjolras -- has he made himself out to be so rigidly unbending, so harshly judgmental, so utterly uncompromising?

"I was young and stupid -- this was a whole year and a half ago -- and I used to try really hard to only see the good in people, you know? I believed in people." Grantaire gives a mirthless chuckle, as though he's made a ridiculous statement. "He wasn't...he wasn't always like that. Not in the beginning, at least. I'd never been in love. I thought I was in love. And when -- when he showed himself as he really was, I was in too deep." He draws his knees to his chest, hooks arms around them. "I never wanted you to know."

"Grantaire." Enjolras puts down his coffee, debating whether it's okay to touch him; in the end emotion wins out, and he does, putting a careful hand to his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. You _know_ none of that was. I wish I'd known. I'd have--"

What would he have done, though? Been less of an inconsiderate dick to Grantaire, maybe, considered that he was fragile, breakable, not a thing to be had when Enjolras wanted him? He honestly doesn't know. Maybe he would have tried to be more considerate. Maybe it would have mattered. Maybe not.

The past can't be rewritten. There is only the present now, and the future -- a future he is coming to recognize as unrecognizable without Grantaire in it.

"Yeah, that's really attractive, the abusive ex-boyfriend recap," says Grantaire, sounding bitter. He waves it away. "Anyway -- he doesn't -- he doesn't matter anymore. He's nothing. And I'm a different person than I was then." He takes a gulp of coffee as though for grounding, then sets his cup beside Enjolras'. "What I'm most sorry for is that you had to deal with me being so wasted. I've been trying -- been trying not to drink so much, but yesterday was a shitshow carnival at the bar, and I didn't think I'd be seeing you. And then I saw _him,_ and he wanted to _talk_ \--"

Enjolras' hand closes on Grantaire's shoulder. "My turn, now. What I'm most immediately sorry for is that I didn't come out last night for the right reasons. I should have found a way to come when you asked."

Grantaire's eyes focus on him, his blue eyes like stormy seas, tossed and churning. Enjolras hand slides from shoulder to elbow to wrist, until Grantaire's hand is warm in his own.

"When I say that I'm too busy, it's never a lie to put you off. When I say that my work is crucial, or time-sensitive, you have to believe me, it is. I haven't always told you the complete truth. But I've tried hard not to lie to you." Enjolras is shocked to find a nervous quiver in his voice he hasn't heard before. He thinks that if he didn't have a grip on Grantaire, he might be shaking. "But when I got an S.O.S. from Joly, about you, I've never moved so fast in my life. And I've never --" It's hard to meet Grantaire's oceanic gaze, nearly impossible, and also easy. He falls right in. He's fallen. "I've never been so afraid."

Grantaire opens his mouth, but Enjolras talks over him; if he doesn't get this out he won't, it's already the most difficult speech he's ever made in a lifetime of speechifying. "All of a sudden everything I've been working for faded -- went gray -- like it wasn't of consequence. Everything I've done, everything I want to accomplish -- none of it meant a goddamned thing if it meant that something had happened to you. And that made me even more frightened. I haven't -- I haven't felt like that about another person before. It wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't looking for it. I thought -- thought I had more control over myself."

Grantaire's fingers tighten against his. When he speaks it's after one false try. His voice emerges on the second. "It doesn't work like that."

"I know." Enjolras has to drop his eyes now, for the next part. He's ashamed. "I know that now. And where I was really wrong -- where I owe you a thousand apologies -- was in thinking that I could control you -- this -- " he struggles; says it: " _Us_ \-- the way I regiment and command all the other aspects of my life. I'm sorry, and I hope you'll forgive me for the way I've treated you. I haven't appreciated you enough, and when I've let myself, ah -- appreciate --" Bless him; for some levity Grantaire cocks an eyebrow, pulls a saucy face, as Enjolras continues, smiling tightly now -- "I tried to keep it limited, time set apart. I took it for granted that you seemed cool with the arrangement, and I didn't let myself much think about what it must have seemed like, to you."

"Say it again," is all that Grantaire says.

"Which part?" asks Enjolras. But he knows. "Us." 

The syllable is harder to pronounce than hacking into Interpol. He does it anyway.

Grantaire's answering smile is sunny enough to light the still-dark room. "Are you saying that you want to be my boyfriend, Enjolras?"

"I'm saying," says Enjolras, "that when you implied that I wasn't, it felt like a lie."

"Let's be glad I don't remember that part." This time's Grantaire's the one who looks away.

"I haven't had a boyfriend before." Enjolras admits it frankly: after all they've been through, this is the least of it. "I've had a lot of friends who are boys, and some boys that I've fu--been with. But never someone who -- and I didn't know -- I don't know _how_ \--"

"With something like this," says Grantaire, looking pleased to be the one speaking with sage and seasoned experience, "there isn't some test you need to pass, or a magical binding ceremony to perform. You ask yourself, and the other person, some questions." White teeth close over his red lip as he considers. "Do you think about me when I'm gone? Do you want to be with me more than most people?" A hint of the brilliant smile resurfaces. "Do you want my body like whoa?"

"Yes," says Enjolras. In the end it's simple. Sometimes the truth is. "Yes. And fuck, yes." He pauses, holds his breath. "Do...do you?"

" _Boyfriends,_ " sings Grantaire. Then they're kissing. It's unclear who starts it. It doesn't matter, because it goes on for quite some time, and they finish it together.

When they pull apart Enjolras thinks he's beaming as broadly as Grantaire -- a strange look for him, but judging from Grantaire's reaction, a good one. "Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

"I was never angry, Enjolras. Only wounded on occasion. Mostly, confused." Grantaire takes a deep breath, as though loathe to break the moment, but knowing that he has to. "Can we talk about your job?” A beat. “What it actually is?"

Enjolras has been waiting for this. "Please believe me. It's not that I don't trust you. I do, now, I _do_. It's that it's too dangerous for you to know. I wish I could -- I want to -- I -- I – Grantaire, I --"

The fact of Joly telling Bossuet is still ringing in his ears, and horribly worrying, but he remembers something Combeferre had told him: the rest of them had their own lives outside the Collective; they could leave it as easily as they joined up. And they aren't in charge. They aren't leading the charge. The people in their lives won't be threatened, can't be turned into weapons. Can't be intimidated, taken away, made to disappear. Can't be used against them --

"Calm thyself, boyfriend, you look like you're gonna give yourself an aneurysm." There's a reluctant note in Grantaire's voice, but he says, "I believe you. I think I know you enough to know you wouldn't be keeping such big secrets without reason. I think you think they're really necessary secrets. I can't say that I like being kept in the dark. I hate it. But I like you. I really, really like you. You're worth the mystery."

Enjolras squeezes his hand. It's more than he's ever let himself imagine or hope for.

"Can I ask a few questions, to ease my troubled mind?"

It's reasonable, totally reasonable, but --

"Maybe," Enjolras hedges.

"Fair enough." Grantaire cants his head. "Are you a spy?"

It's so far from what he is that he's startled into a laugh. "No."

"Could you tell me if you were, in fact, a spy?"

"Probably not." At least now they're both grinning again. "But I'm not."

"Are you a drug dealer?"

Grantaire appears a good deal more hopeful. Enjolras tries not to be offended by the suggestion, but something must show, because Grantaire shrugs a shoulder. "People sell drugs on the internet. On the, uh, dark web. I read an article about it."

Considering his degree of secrecy and the wealth he doesn't hide well, Enjolras admits it's not the craziest conclusion. "No. Not that, either."

"Shit, I was hoping you could hook me up." After this Grantaire's expression becomes serious again. "Do people get hurt in your line of work?"

Enjolras hesitates. Then he tells the truth. "Sometimes."

"Do...do you hurt other people?" Now Grantaire looks like he doesn't much want to hear the answer. Still, he asks.

"Sometimes." Enjolras lifts his chin. He knows the things he's done, the events around the globe he's helped spark, or helped feed a fire already burning. Collateral damage is impossible to avoid. "I try extremely hard to make sure it's only those who deserve it."

A shadow darkens Grantaire's bright features. "Are you in danger? Right now?"

"Not -- not here," says Enjolras. "I wouldn't ever jeopardize you or Jehan like that. But since we're playing twenty questions, yes, I suppose I am. The danger's not immediate. But it's never not there."

"Jesus Christ, Enjolras--"

He raises Grantaire's hand, kisses the back of it, his knuckles, his palm, tries to move them past it. "I swear to you I'm careful. You've seen how careful."

This -- or the kisses -- seem to mollify Grantaire a bit. He stops biting his lip. Draws a breath. "Promise me one more thing. No, two. Three. Promise me three things, and I won't ask any more questions."

"If I can, I will." Enjolras hates promises; they are so hard to keep.

"First," says Grantaire, "if it ever gets bad enough that you're really in immediate, clear and present danger, you'll let me know. Don't say anything, just nod and we'll pretend like we're talking about something else."

Enjolras nods. He has little choice, given Grantaire's phrasing, and again, it's not an unreasonable request. He can, and can't, imagine a situation so gone to hell that it would necessitate the alert. There are too many – endless, uncountable scenarios. But he's so careful.

“Second,” says Grantaire, showing two fingers, “if there's ever any way I can help with your...non-spying, non-drug-dealing business, you'll let me help.”

This is far more difficult. Finally Enjolras bobs his head. The scenario that could possibly involve Grantaire is not forthcoming. He can agree, now, because he will never let it happen.

Grantaire is the picture of satisfaction. “Third,” he says, and lowers his voice: “I've never had anyone – ah – over here, not since Jehan and I moved in. And I'll tell you a secret – I've been dying to get laid in my own bed, with my own sheets and pillows and such. Do you think you might be able to make that happen?”

Enjolras, not knowing what to expect from the third request, is surprised into another smile – a real one, now, full of flashed teeth and flushed cheeks.

“That,” he says, drawing Grantaire close, “that I can promise absolutely.”

On the way there – as they pause smashed up against varied walls, Grantaire tells Enjolras' throat, then the soft shell of his ear, then his mouth, that Grantaire's room is his inner sanctum; it doubles as his studio, and Jehan wasn't exaggerating, no one gets to come in without formal invitation.

When Enjolras tries to compliment the apartment's art, Grantaire kisses him quiet; says that it's all so mixed-up because he's never been able to settle on any one thing.

“Ignore the works in progress,” he says, as they step inside. “Avert your eyes, please.”

Compared to the sprawl of the loft, the bedroom is pocket-sized – more of what Enjolras had been expecting, when he envisaged Grantaire going home. There, the mattress on the floor, separated by a canopy of colorful streaming cloth suspended from the ceiling. There's a clutter of gathered belongings that doesn't feel like detritus because each seems to have its own story -- Grantaire relates some, as they pass by.

Every surface not given over to sentimentality or a tipping tower of piled books is covered in sketches half-finished or half-started.

Grantaire won't let him linger -- peels at their clothes, distracting with earthly matters far more pressing than the abstract. He flicks on a lamp, and that's when Enjolras spots the skylight cut into ceiling, half-open to the air.

“I tried to draw you once,” Grantaire admits, “but you were sleeping, and it felt too creepy to be much of a masterpiece.”

Naked, tugging Grantaire into the circle of his arms, Enjolras lifts an eyebrow. “Ask, next time, and I'll be happy to model.”

Grantaire looks at him like he'd stated a desire to move to the North Pole. “Is that a promise?”

“It is,” says Enjolras. “Turns out, I admire the artist very much.”

They stay in bed all day, getting up only occasionally for sustenance. When the sun goes down and is replaced by the moon, they lie tangled together, illumination pouring through from the skylight. Grantaire's cheek is warm on Enjolras' shoulder, and overhead the stars wink in co-conspiracy. They're on a planet all their own.


End file.
